Seth Lawrence was a fine, muscular man, who had seen plenty of rough service in his time, but appeared none the worse for the buffeting. He was the very “beau ideal” of an Englishman, cool, resolute, and indomitable, and in every way suited for the post in which we find him. Neither chick nor child had Seth, but his nephew Charlie was to him as a son, and the lad in his turn looked upon him in the light of a father. Gunnerstone Reef was scarcely the spot on which to spend Christmas Day as a matter of preference, but with these two, who had no ties of kindred or relationship on shore, it was just as good as any other. Not so was it with Bill Marston, he was anything but satisfied with the arrangements that compelled him to eat his plum pudding in the lighthouse, and had been making himself miserable for some time past about the hardness of his lot. But all the sulking in the world could not alter the state of affairs, and so he himself began to think, as he sat down to tea on the evening when we first make his acquaintance. He was short and somewhat squat in figure, and by the side of Seth presented very much the same appearance as does a steam-tug in the company of a screw frigate. But though Bill Marston was short in stature, he was an awkward customer to get to close quarters with, as a certain cheeky jack tar, who came with the revenue cutter to the lighthouse on one occasion, had good cause to remember. He was a singularly good hand with a rifle, and when the sea was calm, and no craft were in the way, would amuse himself practising. He had lately been giving Charlie lessons in shooting, and his pupil progressed with a rapidity that excited his hearty admiration. Just a word or two of that young gentleman, and then “revenons à nos moutons.” Charlie Fairfield was an orphan; his mother, Seth’s sister, had died when he was quite a baby, never having quite recovered from the shock her husband’s being lost at sea in a storm had occasioned her. With her last breath she bequeathed her blue-eyed baby boy to Seth, and he, with tears coursing down his brown cheeks, swore “that he’d stick to the kid through foul and fair weather, and as long as he’d a shilling in the locker the “young un” should have half.” And, as I have said before, no oath was ever more religiously kept. Charlie was put out to school and received a good sound commercial education, for which Seth found the money, and, at length, when he thought that he had had enough of his books he made a strong representation to his employers, and persuaded them to give Charlie a berth at the lighthouse, where we now find him. Story tellers have a dreadful habit of always making their favourite character very handsome, in fact, an admirable Crichton of the most approved type; and I am afraid that if I attempt to sketch a portrait of mine I shall lay the paint on too thick and spoil the effect. Therefore I leave the task to the imagination of my hearers, merely adding that Charlie was brave and true as steel, and loved Seth with his whole heart.
Tea was over and cleared away, and Seth had been upstairs to see that the lights were all right, and was now taking it easy in a comfortable arm-chair.
“Look here, Bill,” he said, performing that process which is known as washing the hands with imaginary soap, “as it’s Christmas Eve, we’ll treat ourselves to a drop of grog, and make ourselves cosy.”
“All right, mate,” answered Bill, evidently quite ready to enjoy himself after the prescription suggested; “here’s the bacca jar, and presently, if Charlie don’t mind, we’ll get him to spell out a bit of reading.”
“So we will, so we will, mate,” echoed Seth. “Fetch out the groceries, lad, and then I’m blowed if we shan’t be as square and ship-shape this here festive season as any of your land lubbers.”
Charlie bustled about, got out the rum and all the other necessary etceteras, and then made himself excessively comfortable on one of the lockers with the book, from which he was to hold forth for the delectation of the company. It was the ever-green “Pickwick Papers,” and soon the roar of the wind and storm outside was almost lost in the shouts of laughter that Sam Weller’s eccentricities and witticisms excited.
Charlie had been reading uninterruptedly for about half-an-hour, when Seth suddenly jumped up from his chair, exclaiming, “I could swear I heard some one moving in the yard outside.”
“Lor, mate, you must be a dreaming,” answered Bill; “we’re not likely to be troubled with visitors, let alone on such a night as this; but, as I’m nearest the door, I’ll just take a look out.”
Bill Marston rose from his seat and did as he said. The wind came driving into the room, rude, bitter, and searching, threatening to put out their lamp.
“Bless your heart,” continued he, shutting the door quickly, “there arn’t nobody, it was only fancy;” and with that the two resumed their seats and the reading continued.